I Banged A Fat Girl And My Life Will Never Be The Same

After how well received my last article was, I find it necessary to knock myself down a few pegs as it is ubiquitous that hubris is the fall of all great men. Normally I would never admit to a story like this, but I take solace in the fact that this girl, I will refer to her from now on as Porky, was the sister of one of my fellow VPs on the Intershmaternity Shmouncil. Additionally, I’m hoping that you all may learn from my mistakes.

It’s about 9:30 on a Friday night when my friend Patricia gives me a call, asking what plans I had for the evening. It was the first weekend of the semester and one of the other fraternities on campus was hosting their annual Anything But Clothes Party and she insisted that I join her. “Hurry and find something. We’re on our way to pick you up. Be there in five.” With five minutes to cobble together an outfit, I settled on wearing my shower curtain, which was see-through with a few well-placed fish on it. Turns out this shower curtain is magical as something noteworthy always happens when I wear it.

With about a minute until Patricia’s arrival, I figured I could shotgun a beer or three to get the night started. Patricia shows up with two of her sisters and I sneak out of the building and into the back seat of Patricia’s car. The satellite house was about five minutes away, enough time for Hot Mess Bess to encourage a few shots of Fireball on all the passengers.

We arrive to hoots and hollers from my brothers and hugs from Patricia’s sisters, including Porky herself. The night goes on in typical fashion: I drink more beer than I can count, I chase tail with my brothers, and I snag several pictures with girls who think the fish on my shower curtain is Nemo. All is well.

But then, Porky starts crying. In typical fashion, all of her sorority sisters seek to solace her unhappiness by listening to her problems. She says she wants to kiss the boy wearing Nemo. Within moments, all of her sisters start petitioning my brothers to encourage me to kiss Porky. I had a few brothers come up to me in private, trying to be gentlemen. I was so drunk I couldn’t tell you how many fingers I had but I knew enough to refuse each request.

Soon, one loose-lipped strumpet found one of my brothers, Aussie, who has a habit of shouting when he’s drunk. Needless to say, he starts shouting at me from across the back patio. “KISS HER! DUDE, FUCKING KISS HER! KISS HER!” Next, several of my brothers join in with the shouting, then some of her sisters. Before you know it, the entire party, DJ included, has taken up the chant of “Kiss her! Kiss her!”

I was at a critical point in my life. I could sacrifice my integrity by either kissing a girl who weighed three stone more than I do or by not giving the people what they want. With my BAC approaching my GPA and being the entertainer I am, I gave the people a show. I kissed her and smacked her ass to applause from people on the roof and muted sounds of revulsion from the few sober drivers still around. Having accomplished the unthinkable, I kept drinking, partly to wash away the taste, partly to wash away the memory.

Patricia drives me home later that night and I am oblivious to her advances. Actually, I’m oblivious to everything besides my beer, but more on that another time.

I get to my room and start on the 6-pack waiting for me in my fridge when I hear knocking on my door. Worried that this may be one of my residents — I was an RA at the time and I happened to be on call for the evening — I rushed to the door. It was Porky, who I now remembered was also an RA and so had access to every building. I knew in my heart this was bad but I figured I could be boring enough to make her go away shortly. She allowed herself in, so I sat on the couch, pulled my beer in tight and put on the Discovery Channel.

Not 10 seconds later her hand shoots down my pants. I tried the whole “slow down, I’m not ready for fooling around” thing, to which she whispered, “It’s okay, I wasn’t ready either. But you showed me that it’s not about waiting until you’re ready; it’s about seizing the moment,” forcefully grabbing Little Richard on the word “seizing.”

Aghast at how this evening was ending, I had a shocked look on my face, clearly misread by my “companion” who thought I was enjoying myself. She started pulling off my pants and gave Little Richard a lick. Afraid of the word “seizing” coming up again, I convulsed and started protesting. “I…” She shushed me and said, “I thought you might like that,” and proceeded to go about her business.

At this point everything in my body was going absolutely haywire, trying to tell me to run for the hills. However, at that moment, I found drunken clarity.

In reality, there is no such thing as drunken clarity, but with our clouded judgment, we feel extremely philosophical and proceed to ponder. The angel on my shoulder was unconscious with alcohol poisoning and the devil was telling me that everything would be okay. First, she clearly knows how to handle a hot dog. Second, this is Robbie’s sister and this is a total power move on your VP. Third, you’ll get your toaster from the sorority.

Toaster? Say no more. I only had to think of the sweet appearance of kitchen appliances and I was ready to go 16 rounds with Floyd Mayweather punching me in the face. Who needs Viagra?

I figured I might as well have a little bit of fun with it, so I pulled every weird position I could remember from that “LAYLA RIVERA TIGHT BODY” video.

The next morning I woke up and she was in my bed. Less drunk than I was last night, I was mortified at my memory of the event. I shooed her out, coming up with some excuse about a staff meeting and ran into the shower, hoping to scald off every remnant of that evening. Finishing my shower, I finished the beer remaining in my fridge, trying to console my ego. I heard knocking on the door again and my hair stood on end like that of a frightened animal. I eventually brought myself to answer the door, and this time it was my residents in the room next to mine.

“Hey dude, we heard some shouting last night. We wanted to give you some props for that. I mean you did have someone over, right?”

I looked at them with the crazy eye. “No. There was nobody over last night,” and shut the door.

Things we can all learn from an event like this:

1. One Stone is about fourteen pounds. You’re welcome.
2. We learn from our mistakes, namely there are some sex positions that big girls don’t excel at.
3. Also, one day you will learn to cope with your mistakes. I look back on this with honor, considering myself a Captain Ahab, having succumbed to the Great White Whale.
4. There will come a moment in your life where people will be chanting your name, encouraging you to do something you would never do in your right mind. Grow a pair. Do it. In the words of one Jimmy Tatro, “You only live once.”

Yeah man, I agree…a girl he had zero desire to hook up with came into his room when he was really drunk and touched him even after he said he wasn’t into it…”Not 10 seconds later her hand shoots down my pants…Aghast at how this evening was ending, I had a shocked look on my face, clearly misread by my “companion” who thought I was enjoying myself.” Like, that sounds like every sexual assault case I’ve read about this year but with genders reversed.

I got a blowie from an actual obese girl and it was so amazing I went back every day for a week. 3 years later and I still think about her two-handed twisting finisher technique whenever I’m trying to speed things up in bed. Highly recommend.